Death Rides the Pecos

Introduction

West of the Pecos River, the plains of Texas fold themselves into mountains. Here El Capitan, a peak of the Guadalupe range, rises over 9000 feet above sea level to mark the greatest elevation in the whole vast state. At points along the winding course of the river, one stands on cliffs towering high above the water to view in one direction New Mexico and, in another, the international boundary, the Rio Grande. It is a rugged country, this, and in the old days a stronghold of lawlessness.

Into this violent and treacherous setting, Davis Dresser, author of Death Rides the Pecos, my current selection for Triple-A Western Classics, introduces two of the happiest-go-lucky cowboys you ever encountered in fiction—Twister Malone and Chuckaluck Thompson. All they wanted, really, was a trail to follow straight through to Mexico and a chance to be left alone to enjoy themselves. But the trail they chose happened to coincide with the trail of a murderer …

The upshot is a story with double appeal, one that will please the reader who likes mysteries fully as much as it will please the reader who likes Westerns. The tang of the crisp, bracing West Texas air is in it. There is action aplenty, and masterly suspense. And through it all runs the feeling that the reader is taking part in the story and is dealing with real flesh-and-blood characters. I know of no better recommendation a story can have.

ERLE STANLEY GARDNER

Temecula, California

January 1, 1949

1

Since early morning, Twister and Chuckaluck had ridden silently in the distance-devouring jogtrot of men who have ridden far and have yet far to ride, accompanied by the inevitable cloud of fine white alkali dust rising from the lonely wagon road following along the west bank of the Pecos River south from the New Mexico line.

Twister’s roan and Chuckaluck’s buckskin cayuse were indistinguishable beneath the layer of chalky dust covering every hair; but neither a mantle of dust nor low-tilted hat brims nor bright bandannas covering nose and mouth could hide the identity of the two men, though the latter gave them the appearance of gay and defiant bandits.

Twister, a head taller and twenty pounds lighter than his companion, sat lithely erect in his saddle, gray eyes peering alertly through the murky cloud of dust, ceaselessly scanning the barren landscape on either side and ahead, in the manner of one not anticipating trouble but prepared for instant vigilance. The left side of his lean, tanned face was passive, almost serene; but, above the bandanna on the right side, the jagged scar of an ancient knife-cut ran from the lobe of his ear upward to lift the corner of the eye in a satanic slant.

Beside him, and a neck’s length behind as was his habit, Chuckaluck’s heavier body slouched comfortably in the saddle, his round good-humored face sagged with weariness. The mild blue eyes beneath whitish brows, which gave him an expression of perpetual surprise, were closed against the reflected glare of the sun and the stinging heat.

As different in disposition as in looks, these two had traveled danger trails together from Wyoming to the Arizona border; through the icy ranges of the Rockies to the somnolent sand dunes of New Mexico.

Content to let Twister do the worrying, and for the most part, the thinking also, Chuckaluck long ago gave up trying to quirt his lethargic brain cells into keeping pace with Twister’s keener perceptions. Stolid and unimaginative, he left the watching to Twister while he had only to watch Twister in order to know the moment to act. He was ready to back up any play Twister made, and his lightning draw had been the death of many men who, misled by his sleepy attitude of non-aggression, emptied leather against him too late.

That was all behind them now. They had solemnly agreed two weeks ago that they were through hunting trouble, and, as solemnly, agreed that thirty was a ripe age to settle down to a tranquil life of indolent ease.

Hence, to them, a veritable promised land lay beyond the rim of the Davis Mountains which formed a hazy horizon southward, beyond the rugged Big Bend region and on the other side of the Rio Grande where a friend, Don Rodrigo, owned a vast rancho needing the services of two top-hands such as themselves.

Such was their dream, and this trek through the relentless heat and dust of the western tip of Texas marked the fulfillment of it.

The trek, however, had not been without its one point of interest. Since leaving Carlsbad yesterday morning, a strange dust cloud had ridden before them. About half the size of the ball of dust raised by their own horses, which marked a lone rider pacing them through the desolate country. A rider, Twister surmised, who did not crave company, else he would slacken his pace and wait for them to catch up.

Chuckaluck noted the phenomenon with casual disinterest, but to Twister’s keen mind, any hint of mystery, however slight, was a challenge, and this was the second day of the presence of the mysterious rider who persistently remained just out of sight on the road ahead of them.

M’mouth, said Chuckaluck with sudden unexpectedness, lowering the gay bandanna, tastes like I was sproutin’ sponges.

Twister glanced aside at him with a grin. The scar moved, drawing his eye rakishly upward in satanic glee while the left side of his face held only mild amusement.

Work yoreself up some spit, Twister advised amiably, an’ soak up the sponges. Then you can suck ’em dry, pertendin’ you’re layin’ on yore back under one of Don Rodrigo’s yam-yam trees with the juice tricklin’ down.

If I had yore ’magination, snorted Chuckaluck, I’d pertend I was eatin’ whiskey icicles hangin’ from the roof of the Last Chance saloon in Gunnison, Colorado. D’yuh recollect when, the boys cracked a keg on the roof an’ she froze afore she hit the ground?

Twister remembered vividly, and the blazing heat of the Texas sun became unendurable.

This yere, Chuckaluck went on with a disgusted wave of his hand toward the parched treeless prairie, is one hell of a country.

They say there’s some purty good ranches through here.

Reckon they raise a special breed of critter what thrives on the thorns off mesquite bushes. Me, I’m shore thankful we’re just pilgrimin’ through on our way to the land of milk and honey.

"Not tuh mention tequila and hot-eyed señoritas?" Twister asked idly, his gaze turning from his companion and again becoming fixed on that slow-moving ball of dust suspended above the greasewood and sage a couple of miles ahead.

"I’ll take the tequila, Chuckaluck muttered. You kin have the …"

The dull echoing thud of a distant revolver shot interrupted Chuckaluck’s generous renunciation of the Mexican girls. He jerked upright and stared ahead as the ears of roan and buckskin flipped forward and both animals went into a gallop.

Half a mile ahead the road lifted over a low ridge and disappeared. The companionable cloud of dust had disappeared with the road, and it was from there that the single shot resounded through the thick silence of mid-afternoon.

Now, what d’yuh reckon …? Twister began, his right eye cocked at a tense angle.

Chuckaluck cut him short. Ain’t none of our business. Mebbe one of that feller’s caht’idges got so blamed hot it went off by its ownself.

Maybe. Twister’s face was grim and questioning.

Chuckaluck looked at him and sighed lugubriously. Tain’t no use. I kin feel ’er a-comin’. Trouble, b’Gawd, an’ us two dang fools jumpin’ spang into the middle of it just when we was figgerin’ to be th’ough with trouble.

Twister didn’t reply. He leaned forward slightly and loosened his reins. His roan slid smoothly into a lope, then, sensing his rider’s urgency, stretched out into a thundering gallop.

Behind him, Chuckaluck spoke sorrowfully to his horse: Awright, you Buck. There they go. An’ like a dang fool, here we go, too.

Buck snorted and tossed his intelligent head, put his nose into the dust and set out to overtake Twister’s roan. This, he accomplished as they topped the rise ahead.

From the top of the ridge they looked down a gentle slope into a wide valley, narrowing sharply toward the river. A deep gully twisted through its center, marking a water-course fed by some hidden source in the low hills westward.

A saddled and riderless horse trotted up the slope beyond the ravine, holding his head high to lift the dropped reins from his hooves. A range-bred horse which had been frightened into breaking the rigid rule of standing tied to the ground.

Twister checked his roan hesitantly, glancing aside at Chuckaluck who reined in beside him.

I knowed it, Chuckaluck moaned. When hell pops we’re shore to be caught in the middle of it.

Twister grinned. I’ll lope on an’ flush ’em out of the arroyo. It’ll be plumb safe for you to amble on slow. He spurred his roan forward, right hand going to his hip to loosen a Frontier Model Colt in its holster.

Chuckaluck’s face was morose as he slowly followed his impetuous companion. Methodically, he drew a short-barreled saddle gun from its boot beneath the left stirrup leather, levered a cartridge into the chamber and blew an accumulation of dust from the rear sight. Resting the carbine in readiness across his thighs, he jogged on to the edge of the gully where Twister had slid from sight.

Without a change of expression he rode up beside Twister and looked down at a murdered man who lay just as he had fallen from his horse … on the edge of the shallow stream, staring up at the riders with wide, sightless eyes, a soft-nosed bullet hole straight over his heart.

Plumb good shootin’, Chuckaluck murmured, a note of admiration sounding through his gloomy voice. He slid his carbine back in its boot after one comprehensive glance upstream at a clump of willows more than forty yards distant.

The pore devil prob’ly didn’t know what hit him, Twister agreed. His glance followed Chuckaluck’s upstream and a reckless light flickered in his gray eyes, but his voice was studiedly casual as he went on: Reckon I’ll take me a little pasear up past them willows.

Chuckaluck knew the uselessness of protest. His plump face was a set mask of dusty gloom as Twister rode up the streambed directly toward the point where the ambusher must have been hidden when the shot was fired. There was something inside of Twister that drew him toward danger as a magnet draws steel filings. He could no more resist it than his companion could resist the lure of the numbered odds on a Chuck-a-luck board.

Twister’s face drooped with disappointment when he rode back, but curiosity burned in his right cocked eye. Chuckaluck pensively rolled a cigarette and looked up inquiringly.

The skunk wa’nt nowhere in sight, Twister said sourly. I cut his sign where he smoked half a dozen cigarettes waitin’ for this feller tuh cross his sights.

Chuckaluck nodded without surprise. He’d be a right handsome gent if he had his haid all in one piece, he commented, motioning to the dead man.

Twister looked down at a strong clean-shaven face and the well-knit body of a man in his forties. He wore a black sateen shirt open at the throat, well-creased brown trousers instead of an ordinary puncher’s blue jeans, his boots were of soft hand-tooled leather with silver inlaid spurs at the heels, and the carved ivory butt of a silver-mounted six-gun showed above a holster at his hip.

This here, said Twister softly, ain’t no ordin’ry waddie. An’ by the same token, this here ain’t no ordin’ry dry-gulchin’.

Which is all the more reason for us tuh ride on down the road an’ forget we was disfortunate enough tuh be eatin’ his dust when he got hisse’f killed.

Twister Malone said nothing. He dropped his reins and dismounted lithely, squatted beside the dead man while Chuckaluck stared disapprovingly from his saddle.

’Twon’t hurt none tuh take a look-see, Twister muttered. Whereupon, he searched through the pockets and presently rocked back on his heels with an envelope in his hands.

Mr. Peter Marsden, Portales, Colorado, he read aloud, looking up with a frown. "Portales? Wasn’t we there three years ago? Shore. That’s where you got stuck on the Mex gal an’ come dang near gettin’ stuck by her brother."

Chuckaluck reddened and his cheeks puffed up in a faint grin. That don’t give us no cause for readin’ a dead man’s mail, he said drily.

How else we gonna find out about him?

Cain’t yuh get it through yore thick haid that the less we know about this business the better off we’ll be? We’re strangers in Texas, an’ I’ve heerd that rattlesnakes and strangers rank ’bout the same here’bouts.

Looks like it was writ by a woman, Twister continued in a musing tone, studying the envelope with curious eyes while his fingers nervously played with the folded sheets of paper inside.

Pull it out an’ read it, groaned Chuckaluck. I know you’re a-goin’ to sooner or later. Sooner suits me. I don’t crave to have no posse ride up on us while we’re interviewin’ a fresh corpse.

Waal, if you insist, Twister agreed guilelessly. He took the letter out and laboriously read it aloud:

Dear Uncle Peter:

I know you’re not really my uncle, but Daddy always said I was to call you that, and I haven’t any real uncle nor anyone besides you to turn to for help.

Daddy has told me about when you and he were partners prospecting for gold, and how you went on to Colorado when he settled down here on the Circled X ranch. He said I could count on you if I ever needed help, and I need it terribly right now. Daddy was killed last month and things are in awful shape and I don’t know what I’ll do if you can’t come and straighten them out.

I’m mailing this to the last address Daddy knew, which is Portales where you bought a ranch, and I hope you receive it and will come in time.

I will not write more because it would take many pages to explain everything and I will save that until you arrive.

Sincerely,

Sally Blaine

Looks like, Twister said slowly, refolding the letter and putting it back in the envelope, Miss Sally Blaine is shore gonna have a awful long wait for he’p from Mr. Peter Marsden.

Yeh,’ said Chuckaluck with cold disinterest, an’ that ain’t none of our lookout. If yore curiosity is plumb satisfied, slide that there pathetic letter back an’ le’s be hittin’ the trail. It’s still a long ways to the Rio Grande."

Twister reluctantly replaced the letter and stood up. But we had oughta do somethin’, he protested. There’ll be coyotes an’ buzzards flockin’ ’round.

Let ’em flock, said Chuckaluck grimly. It’s again the law to touch a body till the coroner comes.

Twister gazed up at him in mild surprise. This here’s west of the Pecos. They ain’t no law west of the Pecos ’cordin’ to all reports.

But there’s cottonwood trees, Chuckaluck reminded him. I like shade, but I shore don’t hanker none tuh rot in it at the end of a rope. We’re turnin’ off the road here an’ swingin’ southwest tuh hit the El Paso trail an’ ride to Pecos City from that direction. Tomorry mornin’ we amble on south ’thout mentionin’ to nobody what we just seen.

Shore. I reckon that’s best. Twister looped reins over his roan’s neck and swung into the saddle. He didn’t ride immediately, however. His unscarred eye was gloomy with regret at leaving the clue to a deep mystery lying in the dust, while the other slanted outward and upward, bright with curiosity.

You’re right, Chuckaluck, he repeated reluctantly, touched spurs to the roan’s side and rode swiftly away.

Chuckaluck raced after him, shouting, "An’ we turn back to the other side of the ridge ’stid of follerin’ this wash an’ chancin’ tuh meet up with an hombre that slings soft-nosed lead promisc’us an’ straight."

Twister turned in his saddle to look longingly up the steep-walled arroyo which might lead to an encounter with the killer, then faced about with dire regret to ride Chuckaluck’s safe course away from the river road and away from suspicion.

He didn’t say anything more because he had long ago learned the futility of arguing with Chuckaluck when the latter had stubbornly determined on a course of action. He didn’t, however, feel they could so easily escape from the situation into which Fate had thrust them. He would bide his time and see what he could see. They were still a long way from Mexico.

2

The country sloped upward gently from the chalk flats by the river, rising in a series of ridges to greener foothills beyond, which blended into the hazy blue of the Guadalupe Mountains surmounted by the sentinel spire of El Capitan peak.

There